Mom and Dad were heading home, a Model T Ford ride,
Up the Rock Creek hill, with no door on the driver's side,

From their wedding chugging, on a cold December evening,
On a steep hill T's conk out as gravity-fed fuel stops feeding,

"Put a rock beneath the tire," said Dad, his foot upon the brake,
My Mother found a rock the size of her fist, for goodness sake,

Dad came around to crank it, (the rock was much too small),
The Ford was quickly rolling backward, downhill, crank and all,

There they stood, on the road, while the T began to streak,
Backward down the slope, toward the frosty bridge and creek,

That buggy slued around, off the bridge into the drink,
With the headlights still shining, waterlogged it in a wink,

Granddad, team and family, came along and saw their plight,
Took the kids and ladies home and came back later on that night,

The Model T still ran, I am told, but what a sight!
Honeymooners stranded on their very special night.

by D. Edgar Murray